An Absence of Light
by J Sundrop
Summary: Takes Place after The Reichenbach Fall. What became of John in the months following Sherlock's death. Rated T for themes and language - this is your trigger warning.
1. November

Standard disclaimer - I do not own any of the characters (nor the cover image)

An Absence of Light

\- After TRF -

November

John sat in the empty 221B flat, staring out the window. The clock on his phone read 08:07, and he knew he was already late to work. He had done everything right today, gotten up with the alarm (improvement), showered quickly (improvement), _left his gun at home_ (they would call it an improvement, but as the tension filled John's chest when he closed the drawer holding his trusted Browning, he wasn't so sure), but as he was about to leave at a reasonable time, he made the mistake of looking at his red chair, across from _his_ black one.

It was a rainy, muggy day in London and the sky was a dull concrete gray, not that John noticed. He was staring into space, lost not in memories, but in _sentiment_. A dreary mixture of longing and grief. 08:24. He sat against the sofa, leaning back on it, left knee up and right leg comfortably extended underneath the table in front of it. His shoulder hurt; always did in this weather. It matched the dull pain gripping his chest.

A knock on the door broke the heavy silence surrounding John.

"John?" Lestrade's voice called.

"Hm? Yes, coming." John used his hands against the sofa to push himself off the floor, and walked the few steps to the door. On his second step, his right knee buckled and John tripped forward, landing ungracefully against the door. "Shit," he whispered under his breath. _No. I don't believe it. I refuse to believe it._ He should be able to psych himself out of a psychosomatic limp, right? Pushing himself off the door, he tested his leg, hoping that it held up. And for a second it did… until he crashed once again, landing painfully on his bad shoulder.

Hissing in pain, he carefully turning around while avoiding putting weight on his leg, and opened the door to a worried-looking Greg.

"I brought you some biscuits…"

"Thanks." John took the box and limped aside so Lestrade could walk in. He shut the door behind Greg, and stood awkwardly against the bookshelf as the other man prepared to talk.

"Listen, mate. I know, we know, that Sherlock's, uh, passing, has been rough." At the mention of _his_ name, John stiffened. "It has been on everybody, and especially you. But this… this thing that has been going on? With the not-showing-up-for-work and the breakfast-at-6pm _if_ you remember, it's got to end."

John avoided Greg's eyes because everything he said was true. But John couldn't just up and leave 221B. Despite the overwhelming layer of sadness waiting for him at every corner of this place, it is… it was, his home. Home is where your heart is, so even if John's heart left him by jumping off a bloody morgue, this was his heart's last known location. This was his last home. So he stayed, because that's what good people do. They stay with their family, their heart. Or at least they should, and by that logic neither of John's parents were good, but that was okay. John was okay. John was always okay. Nobody ever asked, so by default John had to be okay. That was fine.

John couldn't tell Greg why he couldn't leave; the words wouldn't come out. So he waited until Greg said his piece, gave up on convincing him to move in with him, and left. The entire time, John didn't move from his post against the bookcase, and Lestrade never asked why. It's unlikely he figured out, much less that he deduced, that John's limp was back, more likely that he thought of John's awkwardness as a new character trait brought on by his recent loss. And John was okay with that. He was fine with nobody _really_ caring. Sure, they checked in, did their moral obligations as former co-workers, but that didn't mean anything. Not really.

John was fine.


	2. Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving

John spent Thanksgiving at a bar.

He had discovered the joys of alcohol the week before, and without anyone around to stop him, became a regular at _Danny's_. His new and improved schedule included waking up with the alarm, showering quickly, slipping his gun into his jacket pocket _,_ and leaving at a reasonable time to work. After work, he dropped his gun at 221B, and went to Danny's until around 1 on the weekdays. Replacing adrenaline with beer worked pretty well. John was fine. He sat at the stool on the end, and stared at his phone until he could no longer make out the time and only saw a fuzzy gray box. Then he knew it was time to leave.

John stumbled out of the bar, refusing to use a cane, and immediately felt the rain on his face.

"Seriously?!" he shouted at the sky, almost expecting an answer. Some type of explanation for why even after he lost count of the number of shots he downed, nothing could loosen the tension in his chest, or the ever growing black hole inside him.

The gray sweater he wore was warm, but not nearly warm enough for the November chill in the air, let alone with the addition of cold rain. John shivered, knowing he would catch a cold if he walked, and stood outside to hail a cab. He stood there for about ten minutes before realizing that _it's Thanksgiving. Everybody's at home. There are no cabs out._ Stupid. Stupid John, who can't figure out anything to save his life. Ridiculous John, who used to wear colorful jumpers. Foolish John, who though his happiness would last.

John, who couldn't figure out that _everyone leaves_ until it was too late. His father left; couldn't deal with two unplanned children. His mother left the same way _he_ did, except she used a noose. Harry left; disappeared into the bottom of a bottle. And despite his initial fighting, it seemed John was following in his sister's footsteps.

 _I guess I'll have to walk back, then._

Ever so slowly, John limped slowly down the four blocks to 221B, rain dripping down his face and soaking his sweater. Where was he even going? Home. Where is home? 221B certainly didn't feel like home, the bedsit wasn't home. Greg's house surely could never be his home…

John was fine. Stubborn as hell, definitely drunk and cold, but fine. He had to be.

But what if he didn't?

John arrived at his flat. With shaking hands, he fumbled with the wet key and unlocked the black door. As he was about to take the first step up the stairs, he became acutely aware of the throbbing pain in both his legs that had somehow awoken despite the bubbly amber fluid coursing through his body. Leaning on the dark handrail, John knew that the moment he sat down he would be done for the night, so in an effort to avoid killing his back by falling asleep on the stairs, he trudged up the seemingly endless number of steps to the first floor where he had been staying. _His_ floor.

As John opened the door with wet hands, he looked around to the apartment, his gaze settling on the two chairs. They were each coated with a layer of dust from months of disuse.

John still felt the cold air stick to his skin as limped to the bedroom, leaving a trail of water in his wake. Sighing with relief when he saw the comfy bed _just waiting for him_ , John was about to fall into bed, but realized he was still in his wet clothes.

Pouting, he moped to the dresser and put on a fresh pair of boxers, and comfy pajama pants. He threw off his sweater and t-shirt, and opened the dresser drawer. There he stood, shirtless and alone in his flat, when he came face to face with his gun. Drying his hair with a different shirt he looked at it, tracing its outline with his eyes.

Still standing, he picked it up, and felt the smooth metal, the comfortable weight in his grip, the beautiful simplicity of the design. He moved it from one hand to another, relishing in both the security and the power the tool gave him, but also feeling the gaping hole inside him shrink just a tad, and he felt invincible. As though the only thing that could hurt him was himself.

BANG!

A bullet hole in the wall.

BANG!

Another one next to it.

A light turned on across the street, and John dropped to the floor in the darkness, laughing maniacally, finally feeling some excitement back in this flat. After a couple minutes when the shouting died down, he turned onto his back and laid his Browning on his bare chest, still breathing hard.

Slowly, an idea took shape in his mind.

He put his left hand on the handle of the gun, and without lifting it from his skin, pressed the warm tip onto his chest, right where the emptiness was at its peak.

He clicked the safety off.

" _Kill shot over that distance from that kind of a weapon – that's a crack shot you're looking for, but not just a marksman; a fighter."_

He put one finger on the trigger.

" _He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle."_

Shut his eyes.

" _Nerves of steel."_

"Nerves of steel," John repeated, echoing _his_ words, holding the gun tighter. "Moral principle," John scoffed.

"Well you didn't have moral principle!" John shouted at the ceiling.

"You _left_! You left, just like everyone else." John squeezed his eyes shut, refusing to cry.

" _I_ was honorably discharged. I didn't leave!" he shouted until his voice broke. "I won't go now," he whispered. He dropped the gun, hearing it clatter beside him, and dragged himself onto the bed. _His_ bed, though his scent was long gone.

Sure, John was fine.


	3. December

December

In December John went missing for a few days, raising panic in the Yard. Lestrade was all over the place, giving orders, searching all likely places, until he stumbled upon Sherlock's old crack house on the map.

"He wouldn't go there," Anderson insisted in his nasally voice. Unsurprisingly, Donovan agreed with him.

"John's not that kind of man," she said.

"I don't know if he is or isn't," Lestrade lectured. "All I know is that Sherlock's death broke him, understand? And everything we thought we knew about John is being called into question. So if you're thinking about John as the same person he was before Sherlock jumped, you're going about this the wrong way and we're never going to find him. So get your bloody pride off the table and just do as I say!"

The two stared at their boss, stunned.

"Yes, sir," Donovan said.

"Right away," Anderson stammered.

In twenty minutes, the three of them were in separate squad cars, each heading to different locations. Anderson went to relieve the person watching over 221B in case John went back; Donovan patrolled the neighborhood bars; and Lestrade went without backup - this wasn't a drugs bust - to the cocaine-infested residence.

Pulling up a block away from the abandoned two-story building, Lestrade stepped out of the police car, slamming the door behind him as he briskly walked (almost in a jog) towards the seemingly vacant building.

As he approached the ruins of a once beautiful home, Lestrade decided to look behind the house, just in case John hadn't gone in. Walking softly through the overgrowth of plants, he surveyed the scenery. In the afternoon light, everything was bright green, save for one spot of gray next to the house. It could've been a small overturned table, or a rotted tree stump, except for the fact that it was shaking. Hard.

Tree stumps and small tables don't vibrate.

"John?" Greg called softly. The shaking softened.

"John!" Greg yelled, fighting his way through the plants. "Bugger weeds - John!"

The lump unfolded just slightly, revealing dirty blond hair, and the detective inspector sighed with relief.

"For Christ's sake, John. You had us all… you had _me_ scared half to death! What are you doing out here?" He didn't move, but the shaking became less steady, and came in erratic bursts.

As Greg came closer to what could now be clearly seen to be John, curled up in the midst of the undergrowth, he heard sharp intakes of breath accompanying the shudders wracking his body.

"John…"

He looked up, revealing a set of red-rimmed, puffy eyes, and clutched his knees tighter to himself.

Swallowing, the DI asked quietly, "You didn't… take any right? I mean, you didn't shoot up?"

John shook his head no as the sobs rolled off his body in sporadic waves, and Lestrade crouched there awkwardly for a moment, before sitting on the ground next to him.

"Lestrade to Donovan, pick up."

A few moments of static on the walkie ensued before a crackly voice returned over the speaker.

"Donovan here."

"John is in custody, return to the Yard. Forward message to Anderson."

"But sir…"

"Over and out." Lestrade turned the walkie off. He took off his jacket and laid it over his friend's shoulders, sitting in silence until the spasms subsided.

"Why'd you come out here?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

Realizing he wouldn't get anywhere, Greg switched paths.

"John, let's take you home." He looked over to see the other man's response.

"Idurnewoeidatih."

"Mate, I can't understand you with your mouth covered."

After a moment John lifted his head. "I don't know where that is."

Greg was about to say _221B_ , but he stopped himself, realizing that _maybe it isn't home for John without Sherlock._

"Then I'll take you wherever you want to go. If you want to stay over my at flat the offer still stands."

"I wanna stay here."

"I'm afraid I can't do that, John. You know I can't."

John sighed heavily, and stretched his legs out in front of him.

Seeing the three day stubble on John's face, Lestrade offered, "Why don't we take you to a hospit…"

John shook his head _no_.

"…clinic…"

 _No._

Frustrated, Lestrade said, "Well I have to take you _somewhere_! You've been out here for who knows how long, are probably dehydrated, and I'm no doctor but I can't leave you alone, John."

"But I'm…"

"And don't give me that absolute crap about how you're a doctor because you obviously don't use the same bedside manner with yourself as you do with actual patients."

John sat in silence, fingers twirling the grass beside him.

"Here's what's going to happen," Lestrade said in his DI command voice. "I'm going to take you hom… to my flat, and you're going to shower. A nice, long hot shower. Then, I will keep you on my sofa for the next couple hours and you will drink bottles and bottles of water, and I will feed you. Once you have been sufficiently hydrated and fed, you will give me a thorough answer to one question, and we will figure out what comes after when we get there."

John had stopped handling the grass and was staring at him skeptically.

"If you do not, I will be forced to either have Molly check you out herself, or hospitalize you under a psychiatric ward. I'm not sure which is the better option."

John turned a shade or two paler at the choices, and slowly nodded his assent.

"So let's go," Lestrade said while standing up.

"Uh, Greg?" John said in a hoarse voice. "Lend me a hand?"

Lestrade stuck out his hand and half-pulled John off the floor. "Is there something wrong with your… oh. It came back?"

"Yeah."

"Sherlock told me about that. The, uh, limp."

John said nothing as Greg helped him to his car.

Before stepping inside, John leaned against the open door of the squad car, and asked, "What's the question?"

"Huh?"

"The one question I have to answer?"

"Oh." Lestrade stepped in the vehicle while replying, his words almost being swallowed by the movement. "How are you?"

Greg put on some music when John got into the car, and they were quiet for the ride.

Why was it so hard for John to find an answer to that simple question?

Because he was fine.


	4. Christmas

Christmas  
John followed the suspect down the London block, silently tailing him. He had been working with the Yard for the past few weeks, and his limp had all but gone away. John was alone on this case. Lestrade and everyone he knew at the Yard was off for Christmas, and the DI insisted that he come over for the holidays (he had moved back into 221B). John reluctantly agreed. But when he was putting on his shoes and combing his hair, he recalled the last Christmas he shared. Everyone was oh-so-merry, and John knew that without _him_ by his side, he would only dampen the mood of everyone there. And he wouldn't do that to those people, so John sent a quick text saying that something came up, and ignored all the concerned return messages that followed shortly thereafter.

He then remembered the latest open case - a serial robber of sorts, stealing from rich apartments in a spiral fashion heading towards the center of London. Donovan had predicted his next location, nobody ever addressed it. So John decided to.

The man he was following was slightly taller than John, thin, and had long blond hair. He was wearing dark jeans, a brown leather jacket, and sneakers that John couldn't identify from a distance. As John followed the burglar down a couple blocks, he tried not to remember how many times he had done this with _him_. John tried to block out the voice in his head that pointed out small details, tiny deductions that were mostly insignificant and only rarely gave any important information.

The man ducked into an alleyway and John stealthily followed from a ways behind. _Get your head out of the clouds, Watson._

The robber reached about halfway down the alleyway when he turned around and faced John, who was walking along the side. "I don't know who you are," he shouted. "But you better back the hell off and quit following me!"

At which point John gave up the stealth approach raised his gun, and shouted back, "London PD! Put your hands where I can see them!" _London PD? Who are you anymore, John? You know that's not what they say!_ And either the burglar knew that, or he just didn't care, because he turned and ran, and John ran after him, shooting every chance he got. The man sprinted forward and turned the corner out of the alley, and John followed in pursuit. John turned left after the man, and saw quick movement turning into another alley. As he ran in, he heard shots firing and ducked behind a dumpster, not before a bullet grazed his right arm. With no time to lose, John continued firing shots of his own while ignoring the pain. It was fine. _Just a scratch,_ he told himself. People screamed in the distance. John ran after the man, running into yet another narrow street in the maze of alleyways, and this time was shot in the leg before even seeing the suspect.

"Dammit!" he yelled, falling against a trash can as he watched the man run off.

John looked at his leg, and quickly took off his jacket to apply pressure.

He fumbled for his phone, and before he knew it he was about to press call. But he looked at the number that was being dialed, before he dropped the phone.

This number wouldn't pick up.

 _He_ wasn't around to pick up.

Nobody was around.

John slowly sat down, and released his jacket, letting the wound bleed.

 _What's the point anymore._

 _I'm no longer a conductor of light. He's gone._

The tears that seemed ever-present began to flow again, and he did nothing to stop them.

 _I could just stay here… and hardly anyone would care._

"Hey!" a familiar voice screamed. "Let me go!" The burglar's voice could be heard from what seemed like not too far off, and John's curiosity rose. Someone caught him?

Quick footsteps could be heard in the otherwise quiet back street. John didn't even reach for his gun.

The man who approached from a distance was tall, thin, and wore a long black coat. He walked quickly into the alley, and upon seeing John just sitting there broke into a run. "John!" the man called, in a baritone voice.

 _No. Nope. I'm hallucinating, it's not real. My mind is just being cruel._

"John!" Sherlock repeated, coming closer.

But everything felt real, the bullet wound, the cold December air, the uncomfortable metal of the trash can, the stench of the alleyway. It was all real. So this had to be as well…

John grabbed his gun and held it up just as Sherlock was about to reach for him.

"Not another step," he growled.

Sherlock stepped back at the sight of a pointed gun, but his eyes were frantically roaming his body, as though both relishing in seeing John, but also seeing that he was just barely alive, and struggling to comprehend _why wasn't he doing anything about the bullet wound?_

"John, I…"

"You're alive," John said.

"Well, yes," Sherlock said quickly. "I'm alive, and you're hurt, so can we save the touchy feely reunion for another time and…"

"YOU BLOODY BASTARD," John screamed, tears still clouding his eyes, clutching the gun even tighter.

"I… what?"

"YOU. LEFT. ME. HERE. ALONE."

Tricolor eyes widening in frustration, Sherlock spoke quickly and clearly. "Yes I am alive I had to fake my death there were snipers I can explain later but _John you're bleeding_ we have to _do something_ …"

A smile almost crossed John's face. "Oh that's BLOODY FANTASTIC Sherlock Holmes wants to EXPLAIN?"

"John…"

"Why don't you explain why _leaving me here_ was such a bright idea? Why don't you tell me why I _still can't say your name_ after you DIED. Hm? YOU DIED. Do you have _any idea_ what that did to me?"

Sherlock met John's eyes, and allowed him to read the emotions written on his usually expressionless face. John saw the despair and regret in the man's eyes, the resentment at being so utterly _powerless_ to do anything but play the game, and the _guilt_ at allowing his one and only true friend to fall so deeply into a pit without a light at the end so clearly at the forefront of his mind, and slowly lowered the gun, and it fell to the ground next to him as he began to lose consciousness.

"John? John!" Sherlock rushed to his side and pressed with both pale hands onto the bleeding hole in John's calf. The shorter man's eyes fluttered closed for a second.

"Stay with me!" Sherlock shouted.

They opened again.

Sherlock took a deep breath and as he continued to put pressure on the wound he began to speak, and the words came pouring out as though he'd been holding them in as long as John had.

"I was never one for sentiment so I'm going to say this only once." John's eyes were fixed on him.

"After you saw me die I went to off to dismantle Moriarty's network. While I was there, every minute, every second, I heard your voice in my head steering me through what's right and what's wrong and I can't even begin to count the nights where your brown eyes were the only thing keeping me from insanity. I'm so, so sorry things had to be this way but I couldn't change a thing, John. I had to play the game. So don't think that I made that decision lightly because I didn't and if you hadn't believed me dead you would've died along with all the others whom, though I hate to admit it, I may actually care about.

"You changed me, John. I was so alone and you made me realize that alone doesn't protect me. My life would be so different had it not been for you so for God's sake _don't die on me_ John because I will never forgive you."

John shoved his arm out and ran his fingers through Sherlock's curls.

"I've… always wanted to do that," he whispered, making a ghost of a smile spread across Sherlock's face.

In the distance, police sirens rang, and though bleeding, and bruised in more ways than one, John would be okay.

They'd be okay.


End file.
